Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (16 page)

That was interesting. In the short time she'd known him, he hadn't had any difficulty at all making decisions. And she didn't know many other Highlands lords who could both rebuild a wall and door frame, and hang a door. Aye, he was large and stubborn, but she'd never even thought for a moment that he was unintelligent. Why would his own family think such a thing? “Who is this Stewart lass ye dunnae want about ye, anyway?” she asked into the silence.

“Lady Eithne Boyd. Ye ever heard of her?”

She shook her head. “Nae.”

“She's so wall-eyed she can watch ye coming and going withoot turning her head.”

A laugh burst from her chest. “That's cruel, giant.”

“Then
ye
try talking face-to-face with her and figure oot which eye to look into.”

He continued to hold her hand as they walked, chatting, and for once Catriona decided not to point out that she could keep her balance and find her way just fine without any help from him. His hands were big but long-fingered, with an elegance and gentleness to them she wouldn't previously have expected. A great deal about Munro MacLawry wasn't what she'd expected. And to herself she could admit that perhaps it wasn't such a terrible thing that the two of them had crossed paths.

“I brought some more hair ribbons and a mirror fer Elizabeth,” he said after a moment. “And a pair of night rails. I didnae ken if ye wore one, but I reckoned it might come in handy when ye needed to wash yer things.”

She
did
generally wear a night rail, the one female garment she'd insisted on having, though she'd left it behind at Islay. It had seemed an unnecessary thing to pack when speed had been so vital. “Thank ye.”

“I also brought ye a heavy coat. It's likely a bit oversized, but I noticed ye've a patch or two on that one.” With their joined hands he indicated the mismatched patch on her sleeve that Elizabeth had sewn for her.

“Ye dunnae think…” Catriona pushed the question away. Why was she asking for criticism when it so frequently found her all on its own? “We'll have rain by noon, aye?”

He glanced up at the slowly approaching clouds. “Aye. I reckon so. But that isnae what ye were going to ask me.”

Drat.
She already knew that he wasn't obtuse or unobservant. And what did she care what he thought of her, anyway? She resisted squaring her shoulders. “I've nae heard much commentary from ye about the way I dress, is all. Some of the lads I grew up with say I'm … mannish for wearing trousers.” That was an extreme understatement, but it sufficed for the conversation.

Bear snorted. “If I wore a gown would ye say I looked girlish?”

“Nae. I might think ye looked a bit … absurd, though.”

“And so I would.” This time he chuckled. “With my great arms sticking oot from the lace and my feet jammed into those wee delicate slippers I'd be a sight to send the pipers jumping off the roof.”

A tear leaked from her left eye, and with one hand in his and the other gripping her musket she had to wipe it away against her shoulder. “So that's me, then.” She already knew it, of course, but to hear him agree when he'd never done anything but spoken his mind, well, at least it confirmed that she'd made the correct decision when she'd fled Islay.

“What?” He pulled her to a stop, swinging around so he faced her. “That's nae what I said.”

“Ye said how absurd ye'd look in a lass's clothes. And here I am in—”

“Nae,” he repeated, louder. “I said exactly what I said. That I'd look a sight in a gown. Ye … well, I dunnae quite ken how to describe how ye look to me withoot ye slapping me fer being too forward.”

“I'll nae slap ye.” Not unless he said something worse than what she was already imagining, anyway.

“Fine. Ye dunnae look like ye're in borrowed clothes. They fit ye, and ye move like … ye're graceful in 'em.” He cleared his throat, hauling on her hand to start them off toward the abbey again. “When a lass wears a gown, ye see her face and her arms and her neck, and ye get a good look at her bosom. The way it looks like it wants to escape, anyway. Then there's a ribbon beneath her ribs, and the rest is a mystery.”

“And?” she prompted, deciding Elizabeth would already be scandalized at the conversation.

“Just remember, ye asked me to say this.” With a frown he glanced at her and away again. “Then when—if—ye win the lass's favor, ye lift up her skirt and there it all is.”

Good God.
“I thought we were talking about what
I
wear.”

“I'm getting to that, ye wildcat. Saint Andrew and all the angels. When I look at ye, ye arenae trying to impress me. Or anyone. I see yer eyes first, dark as chocolate and looking right back at me. I cannae see the skin of yer arms or yer bosom, but I see yer wrists, and the way the buttons … pull when ye stretch or turn, and I see how yer shirt tugs over yer breasts and how small yer waist is where yer trousers begin. And I see yer legs, lass, where they start and how long they are and the way yer arse curves … It's—well, ye put a tent in a man's kilt, Catriona.”

She couldn't help glancing down at that, but his kilt looked as fine and smooth as it ever did. The place where
her
legs started began to feel rather warm and tight, though. “So I dunnae look absurd to ye,” she managed, wishing she could keep her voice steady and failing badly at the attempt.

“Nae, ye dunnae look absurd. And if any man's said so to ye, he's either lying or he's jealous.”

She didn't quite believe that, because he'd left out how she appeared to other ladies and to the men of her family who'd wanted her to be … a lady, she supposed it was. Less difficult to explain. Easier to manage. Catriona cleared her throat. “I've nae had a conversation quite like this before,” she admitted.

“Good.”

“And why is it good?”

“Because I dunnae like the idea of some other lad talking aboot yer legs to ye. If ye dunnae believe that, lass, it'd be my pleasure to drag ye off behind the wall there and show ye just how desirable ye are to me.”

And she was supposed to continue a normal conversation after this? Was he jealous of these other men who didn't actually exist? Her heart fluttered a little. “I appreciate ye speaking to me honestly,” she said after a moment, “but ye have to admit what ye described doesnae sound very romantic. Mayhap I dunnae wear a gown, but I
am
a lass, ye ken.”

“Ye didnae ask me to seduce ye,” he returned without hesitation, stepping over the broken wall in front of the Haldane entry and then putting his big hands around her waist to lift her across as easily as if she'd been a wee lamb. “Ye asked if I thought yer garb absurd, and I dunnae. If ye want me to tell ye how yer hair shines like autumn leaves and ye make me think of long nights before a fire or someaught, well, I reckon that's a different conversation.”

She swallowed. “I reckon so.” Given the way she felt at this moment, if he had decided it was time for that conversation, she would likely be dragging
him
over the garden wall. And then she abruptly had to wonder just how many other lasses had lifted their skirts for him. “Why me, Bear?”

For a second she wasn't certain she'd spoken aloud, and she more than half hoped she hadn't. But his hands remained about her waist, and he held her there until she had to look up at his face. He didn't look annoyed, or exasperated, as she'd expected, given her general ham-fistedness about … well, everything. Rather, his sensuous lips were straight, his expression as thoughtful as she'd ever seen it.

“Ye're nae a lass fer a tumble and a swift farewell, are ye, Cat?” he asked quietly, for once keeping his voice low.

If she said that she was, would he give her a tumble and then say farewell? That would solve several of her problems—the nagging lust for him that touched her every time she set eyes on him, his troublesome presence at Haldane Abbey. “Nae, I dunnae reckon I am,” she answered after a moment. With only herself for two lasses to rely on, she couldn't afford to be stupid, however much the idea might presently tantalize her.

“And given that I already know that aboot ye, I imagine I'm still here, looking at ye, because I like what I've seen so far, and—”

“Ye've had other lasses, Bear, so dunnae pretend ye've stars in yer eyes where I'm concerned.”

Finally his lips curved. “I think mayhap I do have stars in my eyes where ye're concerned, wildcat.” He took a breath. “Do ye need an answer now? Or cannae we simply let the days unfold? Because this”—he released her waist to gesture between them—“isnae someaught I'm accustomed to.”

Taking some time seemed a rather spectacular idea, she decided, especially when it meant she wasn't expected to know how she felt, either. Except that now she felt a little more at ease—if he didn't know what came next, she could hardly be expected to. “Very well.”

He certainly seemed to know what he was talking about where females and sex and anatomy were concerned, and no man could be that self-confident unless he had a herd of brokenhearted, well-sated lasses trailing behind him. And yet … And yet he'd barely given Elizabeth a first glance, much less a second, and her sister had been the toast of London with at least a dozen beaux before Anne Derby-MacColl had decided a duke would best benefit the family.

As Bear helped Peter Gilling toss a newly fallen beam into a half-collapsed side room, Catriona snuck a longer look at the front of his kilt. No telltale tent jutted out from between his thighs, though they had been walking and talking for several minutes since he'd left her with that mental image. She knew what it meant, as well—that he lusted after her. Because she had legs, apparently.

No, that wasn't quite true. But deciphering the rest could wait until he wasn't standing ten feet away from her. If she was lucky, she might even procure a glass of whisky, first.

“Would you care for some rabbit stew, Bear?” Elizabeth asked, shaking Catriona loose from thoughts about what that particular Highlander had beneath his kilt.

“I'd nae take yer food, bonny lass,” he returned, and stripped off his shirt despite the distinct chill in the air. “I did bring ye a bauble or two, in the sack there.”

Hm. No sense getting a clean shirt all sweaty, Catriona supposed. She wanted to pull up a chair and watch him work, and while she did that she wouldn't have minded hearing him talk a bit more about how he found her desirable. He was what her uncle would call “direct,” though when she spoke
her
mind the words he'd used to describe her were “unsophisticated” and “tactless.”

But that was all gone. And the ill-fitting future he'd mapped for her—which he'd likely done mostly to be rid of her, now that she considered it—remained on Islay and at someplace called Torriden Hall far to the north. By spring hopefully they would decide she was dead or well out of their reach in the Colonies, and they'd make their plans without her.

“Lass, I reckon the door should open oot into the hallway,” Munro said, hefting the heavy oak door sideways to demonstrate, “and it would be easier fer those inside to secure that way. If ye mean to pile furniture in front of it, though, I'd recommend it swing in, toward the kitchen.”

He was teasing her. Lifting an eyebrow, she put her hands on her hips and strolled forward. “Could ye show me the other way again?” she asked, a hopefully contemplative expression on her face.

With a half grin he heaved the door around once more. “This way?”

“Hm. I'm nae certain.”

“Make him do it again,” Elizabeth whispered from beside her.

Oh, she wanted to. She wouldn't mind watching the flow and flex of those muscles of his all day. But she wanted it—him—to be all for her. Not for her sister. Not even to look. “Considering the lack of pileable furniture in here,” she said after a moment, “I reckon yer first suggestion is sounder. The door should open oot, toward the hallway.”

With a nod that sent wavy black hair across one eye, he set the door down again. Elizabeth's sigh was audible, but Catriona kept hers to herself. Likely every lass for a hundred miles admired his easy physicality. She wanted to be different, but she was a warm-blooded Highlands female, after all, and he was a prime Highlands male. Of course she liked the look of him. But it wasn't just that, and all those other annoying, interfering feelings were more difficult to explain. And to explain away.

While she busied herself with scaling and gutting a pair of trout that had gotten themselves hooked on the lines she'd set overnight, Elizabeth sat at the table, delicately sipping at her bowl of stew, one pinkie lifted as she maneuvered her spoon with the skill of a champion duelist. And that was while she made a soft
O
with her mouth to blow on the hot mix and ogled the brawny man in the doorway all at the same time.

For Saint Andrew's sake. She had nothing with which to compete against pretty words and refinement and the lovely silk gowns that swished when Elizabeth walked—no, glided—across a room. Aye, Bear had said her man's attire aroused him, but underneath the clothes she had the same parts as any other female, and far less idea how to do the mysterious things that caused a man to write poetry or pick posies or any of those other things they did when they admired a lass. Or to want to marry a lass and make her a viscountess and expect her to be able to host parties and play the pianoforte and chat about Paris fashions and dance a waltz.

Bear might not know what he wanted of her, but sooner or later he was bound to realize that whatever it was, another lass, any other lass, would likely be better at providing it than she. She was accustomed to that, to being overlooked and passed over, of course, but he'd bothered to notice her first. That would only make it worse—whether she actually even liked him or not.